


Rainy Day Diversion

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: slashyvalentine, First Time, Hand Jobs, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Memories, New Zealand, On Set, Rain, Staring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-14
Updated: 2006-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a short moment. In theory. In practice, it had kept unwinding in Elijah's mind as he had tried to fall asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Day Diversion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azrhiaz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=azrhiaz).



> Written for [](http://azrhiaz.livejournal.com/profile)[azrhiaz](http://azrhiaz.livejournal.com/) for the 2006 [](http://slashyvalentine.livejournal.com/profile)[slashyvalentine](http://slashyvalentine.livejournal.com/) challenge. Many thanks to [](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/profile)[littlemimm](http://littlemimm.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to [](http://azrhiaz.livejournal.com/profile)[azrhiaz](http://azrhiaz.livejournal.com/) for arranging the challenge. ♥!

It had been a short moment. In theory. In practice, it had kept unwinding in Elijah's mind as he had tried to fall asleep. He had lain on his back, flattening himself uselessly against the mattress, because if he settled on his side, his skin insisted he could feel Viggo's breath on the back of his neck. Hot air, lover's-breath tickling the skin chafed over-sensitive by endless repetitions of glue and solvent.

He couldn't remember a single thing of what had played on the tiny screen they had huddled around on the set earlier in the evening. Rushes of the Prancing Pony scenes, he supposed, remembering they had been at Fort Dorset. He knew the scene, knew his lines, yes, but the feel of Viggo leaning over his shoulder, one hand settled there for support, had bleached everything out of his short-term memory.

Ridiculous. And all the same seared into his memory, deep enough to make him dream of Viggo and wake up sweaty and aroused. He'd groaned, rolling over to lie on his stomach, pressing his face into the sheets. _Not that._ He didn't need it. _No more diversions_.

Viggo, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a voice that, despite barely being audible at times, still had the power to have an entire room fall silent. Artist and absolute and utter loony. Yeah. He could really have chosen something a bit more sane to fall for, couldn't he?

**

The next afternoon, he had sat by one of the set tables, weighing backward on a lawn chair like children did. The plastic had creaked as he had tipped the chair a little further back, swinging his feet idly. The Hobbits had finished their shooting for the day, but he had taken a liking to following the others work. The rest of the Hobbits had jostled loudly as they fought over a decidedly mangy-looking packet of crisps, and had greeted Viggo with a cheer as he ducked in under the low-hanging awning. Billy had grabbed one of the over-sized apples off the table and hefted it with a smirk.

"Let's see you catch this with your head," he had said, flinging the apple at Viggo's head. Viggo had merely smiled, deftly catching the fruit one-handed before biting into it. His lower lip gleamed with the juices when he grinned at Elijah.

 _Hi. I dreamt about you last night, and when I woke up I jerked off to those images_.

He had looked up at Viggo, feeling strangely conscious of how close Viggo stood. "Viggo, you're staring," he'd said, mostly out of need to say something. _Stop looking like you can read my mind_.

"Does it bother you?"

"Well, yeah, it does. I don't know what you're thinking."

"Do you want to know what I'm thinking?"

Viggo had stood stock-still, one hand on the hilt of his sword, weight canted over on one hip. Elijah's mouth had felt sand-dry, and as he shifted uncomfortably, he had been very thankful for the spare Hobbit cape he had wrapped around himself. Just Viggo's cool, appraising glance had turned him on, and being face to crotch with him hadn't helped matters in the least.

"Elijah." Viggo's voice had been a whisper of heat against his skin. "My face is up here."

He had considered making a glib comment about relative height and getting into character, but had decided against it. The laughter from the others would have drowned it out in any case. The afternoon sunlight slanting in under the awning had cast a disturbing halo around Viggo's head, bright orange-yellow creeping through his hair and over his shoulders like fire.

**

Strange how he mulled over things like that as soon as he had a free moment. He sat on the porch, looking at the darkening sky over Karaka Bay and smelling the rain that hung heavy in the air, when he saw Viggo thread his careful way through the high grass. Forget using paths.

The rain started shockingly quickly, fat droplets spattering on the path not a second after the cloud had slid over the setting sun. Viggo had kept his leisurely pace, not breaking into the hilarious crouched half-trot that most people affected when they were caught in rain.

"Mind if I weather out the storm here?" he asked, seeming oblivious to how terribly appropriate the situation was. Elijah nodded assent, rising and brushing his hands on his jeans before leading the way inside.

Well inside, in the lounge, they stood in awkward silence for a while, heads bowed. The rain lashed against the windows, painting dark grey tiger-stripes on the carpet and wiggling like snakes over Viggo's bare feet. Elijah looked up slowly from under lashes and brows like he was asleep, gathering his scattered wits about him, and caught the last of a wicked glitter in Viggo's eyes.

There was no need to say anything.

He found the old clichés didn't hold true. There was no magical slowing of time or thickening of air. They stood at opposite ends of the room, Viggo by the window, Elijah by the door, sizing each other up before both taking long steps across the room. They convened somewhere in the vicinity of the couch, but abandoned the idea. _Not quite yet_.

The shadows on the floor had changed, congealed into a long flow of darkness beginning at Viggo's feet.

Always the feet. Perhaps the long hours of standing in the makeup trailer getting prosthetic feet glued had unhinged something in his head. He looked at Viggo, finding he didn't need to look up, and started at how close Viggo was. At this range, he could see every slight crow's-foot, the gap between Viggo's teeth and the scar over his top lip.

Viggo leaned in, and Elijah stepped back without thinking. They repeated the movement, but half-way this time, with Elijah stepping in at the same time Viggo did, and ended with them both coming up against the wall.

The wall was cold behind Elijah's back, damp-slick chill that he couldn't readily identify as skin or paint. The Seatoun night, spilling in through the open windows, was full of sounds that might have been voices or footsteps, even though he rationally knew that they weren't and that the two of them were alone in the house.

"Can I?" asked Viggo, completely uselessly. There was a gilding of laughter, and Elijah's nerves bundled into barbed-wire lines of impulses. _What the hell kind of question is that?_ He tilted his chin up, then settled his hand on the back of Viggo's neck to pull him down into a kiss. _Is this the answer you wanted?_

Viggo's hands were warm and calloused, solid against Elijah's sides, and Elijah wondered how noticeable his rapid breathing was. Not that it mattered, really. Neither one of them could have been oblivious to his present state: hard enough to set his teeth on edge. Viggo flattened his palm against the bulge, fingers spidering out, reaching over and under, then let his palm slide down along the jean-clad leg, kneeling down in front of Elijah.

"Whoa," said Elijah, momentarily proud of how steady his voice was. _A little too fast, here._ He settled his hands on Viggo's shoulders before all of him slid down, down until his knees folded up against Viggo's chest, until he was hopelessly trapped by his own limbs but at least face to face with Viggo. "My face," he said, voice curling at the edges, "is up here."

Viggo's mouth pursed, good-humoured, then opened into a smile that only lasted a second before turning into a hard kiss. Elijah's head snapped back, connecting with the wall. His hair scuffed and slid against the wall until it fairly crackled with static electricity. There was a spark, a short crackle, as Viggo's fingers touched the top of his head before combing through the not-quite-curls, and Elijah's scalp crawled with the sensation.

"Wait," he mumbled, breaking the endless kiss. "I can't breathe like this."

The entire way up scraped more than the way down, and the collar of his tee-shirt pressed against his larynx like a cloth restraint. When he hooked his fingers into the fabric to loosen it, Viggo's hands skimmed up his sides too fast, peeling the shirt off his torso and trapping his arms. The label caught on his neck hair as he twisted the shirt off, a little icy scrape that made his skin dapple with goosebumps.

Viggo leaned one shoulder on the wall, his head tilted. He was clearly waiting for something.

Elijah was not quite tall enough, but Viggo was content to keep his hands by his shoulders rather than over his head. He had to stand on slight tiptoes, heels raised, but Viggo flexed his knees, slid down a little along the wall, and suddenly it wasn't humiliating at all, only practical. Viggo didn't taste quite like anyone else he'd ever kissed, but then again he wasn't quite like anybody else, period. There was tea and smoke and a little curl of *oh*, something that he couldn't even name but which seemed to set along his tongue.

His grip on Viggo's wrists loosened, became something nominal, but Viggo obeyed, keeping his knuckles against the wall. Viggo still wore Barahir's ring, a little transgression that wardrobe would have a fit over if they knew. Elijah's mass was no match for Viggo: he was too thin and bird-boned, but the rule-works seemed to have been suspended. Strange territory, this, but territory gladly explored.

Viggo must have sensed his distraction, and did not miss the chance to turn the tables once more. His hands weren't artist's hands, they were the hands of a pickpocket: fleet and nimble, the warm skin of his palm almost burning against Elijah's lower belly, against and around his hard cock.

The curses bubbled in Elijah's throat, finally emerging as single syllables crushed and ripped apart. He was melting, hardening, like glass - amorphous liquid, nerves on his skin crackling with synapses. God. He was hard, helplessly hot and bothered, and every one of Viggo's kisses seemed to have heat center in a new place in his body. He leaned forward, his grip on Viggo's shoulder white-knuckle tight.

Every word was ingressive, drawn in and spoken faster and faster, until he was taking whole litanies of curses into himself with every soft stroke. "Fuck," he croaked out, and the reply was instantaneous, glow-hot like coals and soft like silk:

"I will."


End file.
